from earth's lips spoken without sound
by tiredavatar
Summary: prompt: how do i passive-aggressively say 'screw you' with flowers? "Of course, he does. This job might be a requirement of his parole, but he's fucking good at it. And he might've spent hours figuring out the rudest combinations he could think of when he was high one weekend." Florist AU.


He has fifteen minutes of his shift left when the bell over the door tinkles. Mickey, slumped behind the cash register and twirling a pen between his fingers, bites back a groan. The digital alarm clock ticks over another minute as he watches. If Becca were already on the shop floor, he would have no problems with ducking early under the pretence of doing inventory and leaving her to deal with it. But she hasn't come down from the locker room yet, so he resigns himself to being civil. If it's old Mrs Morrison, coming to argue about the price of fucking _tulips _again, though, he makes no promises.

Several racks of flowers stand between him and the front door – no matter how many times he's told Edie not having a clear view of the door _encourages_ theft – so he doesn't get a clear view of who's entered the shop straight away. He does hear heavy footsteps though, and he straightens up in preparation. His knuckles are white around the biro, the black of his tattoos standing out in stark contrast. Just his luck to get an asshole at the end of the day. He nudges his name badge back into place, where it had been hiding under the strap of his apron, and sighs.

The first thing he notices is that this guy is _tall_. Like, tilt his head back and squint against the blaring overhead light tall. The second is that he's wearing a uniform of some kind – the jacket's wrinkled, so he's probably just got off a shift – and the thick soles of his boots would explain the stomping. The third thing is that this guy is _hot_. Long legs, large hands that Mickey resolutely _does not_ think about, broad shoulders. By the time Mickey's gaze settles on his face he's already half convinced he's hallucinating. It's either that or his dreams have finally found a way of becoming real, stubborn chin and obnoxiously red hair included.

"This is probably gonna sound weird." the guy says, and _Jesus_ that voice. Mickey is _definitely_ dreaming. "But you got any idea how to say 'fuck you' with flowers?"

Mickey snorts before he can stop himself, feels his eyebrows crawl up towards his hairline. Of course, he does. This job might be a requirement of his parole, but he's fucking _good_ at it. And he might've spent hours figuring out the rudest combinations he could think of when he was high one weekend. He's already mentally going through inventory to see if they have everything; geraniums (yes), foxgloves (yes), meadowsweet (no), yellow carnations (no), orange lilies (yes, but running low).

Still, his interest is peaked, and he crosses his arms over his chest. He's grinning when he asks, "Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?"

The guy smiles slightly, and Mickey isn't so gay as to say it takes his breath away, but his lungs are starting to feel a little empty. Now that he's close enough, Mickey can see that there's a nametag sewn onto his jacket. _Gallagher_. With that hair and those freckles? Of fucking course he's Irish.

"Does it matter?"

"Not really, but I'm curious. Pretty elaborate set up unless they did somethin' really bad to piss you off."

Gallagher shrugs and his smile slowly disappears. Mickey _is_ gay enough to admit he's sad to see it go. He puts the pen back in the jar he'd gotten it from, just for something to do.

"Hey, man, it's none of my business. I'm still gonna do it, so long as you've got the cash. You can tell _me_ to fuck off if you want. Wouldn't be the first time."

Gallagher's lips twitch, and then he sighs. He looks… _nervous_, Mickey thinks. There's a slight tick in his jaw and his shoulders are nearing his goddamn ears. Scratch that - there's a stubborn glint in his that Mickey can appreciate. He's not nervous, he's _defensive_.

"My friend's getting married in a month and wanted me to help pick out the flowers. We show up at the florist he picked out and the old lady behind the counter asks if we're together. My buddy says yeah, y'know. As a joke. And she starts going off about how 'sodomy is a sin' and how we're going to hell. Refuses to serve him, basically threatens to call the fuckin' cops on us if we don't leave. He's not even gay."

Mickey ignores the way his heart jumps at that. At the fact Gallagher said _he_ and not _we_. We're. Whatever. He was a math guy, not English. Instead he scratches at the corner of his eye and smiles.

"That wrinkly old Q-tip over on Ashland, right?" At Gallagher's nod, his smile turns _nasty_. "She's a mean old bitch. Thinks she's better'n me just 'cause she was around at the same time as the fuckin' dinosaurs."

If he'd thought Gallagher's smile left his lungs empty, it's fucking _nothing_ to what his laugh does. Mickey _feels_ the air rush out of him, like there was a balloon sitting in his chest and it's been popped. He rubs a hand over his chest, feels the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart underneath his fingers, and takes a deep breath.

"So you'll do it?"

Fuck him for looking so hopeful and for making some small part tucked away in the recesses of Mickey's brain _care_. Mickey nods and places his hands on the counter. There's dirt under his fingernails and the tops of his hands are covered in band-aids. He watches Gallagher study them, the tattoos, sees the way his mouth ticks up at the corners. He waits until Gallagher is looking at him again to speak. Hopes against hope he's hearing what _isn't_ being said.

"What're you asking stupid fuckin' questions for? Of _course_ I'm doing it, Gallagher. You wanna _pay me_ to tell that homophobic old windbag to go fuck herself. How can you be a florist and not do business with the gays? Seem to me like that's the real sin."

The way Gallagher's face lights up tells him all he needs to know. He grins.

"Just... do me a favour? Come back and tell me how she reacts."

It takes two weeks for Gallagher to come back into the shop. Mickey's just about given up hope of it happening, has more or less accepted that it's just gonna end up one of those 'weirdest customer' stories people post about on Reddit, when the bell tinkles and Ian _fucking_ Gallagher strolls through the door. It's not weird that Mickey knows his name, either; he'd had to write it down when he'd taken the order. No weird stalking him on Facebook required, fuck you very much. Although he _had_ looked him up just to see if he had one. So what if a guy was curious? Not like it's a crime.

He watches Gallagher slowly approach the counter. He's not wearing the uniform this time and Mickey kind of misses it. Though the shirt he's wearing _does_ make his arms look pretty great. Plus, the soft blue makes his eyes look even greener, and _Jesus_ when did he get this fucking _gay_?

"Hey, Mickey."

He raises an eyebrow and aims for a smirk. "So, how'd it go?"

Gallagher smiles so wide it takes up his entire face.

"Better than I coulda hoped for, honestly."

"Oh yeah?"

Gallagher nods, tucks his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, and rocks on his heels.

"So I go in, right, and she's behind the counter, and I can tell she recognises me because she goes all fuckin' red in the face. Tells me to get out or she'll call the cops. I get to the counter real fast – that place is the size of a goddamn shoebox – and I should probably feel bad about how scared she looks, right?"

Mickey hums, because _probably_, but also fuck her. He knows he's smiling because it's making his goddamn cheeks ache, but he just can't seem to _stop_.

"But I get there and she's looking at me like I'm gonna… I dunno, infect her with the gay or some shit. Up until this point, I've had the flowers behind my back, y'know, to make sure she can't see 'em or anything. So I lay them on the counter, 'cause I _know_ she's not gonna take 'em from me, and I say 'These are just to say thanks for all your help the other day' and then I book it outta there."

"You didn't stick around to see if her head exploded? Weak, Gallagher."

Gallagher shrugs, mouth twitching like he's trying not to smile back. "Figure if that were true, I woulda been called out to deal with it."

"Fuck that, you coulda been the one to call it _in_. Woulda been the perfect crime, too. No one would know it was you, because no one fuckin' knows _what_ flowers mean."

"_You_ do."

Mickey flushes and he isn't entirely sure why. The way Gallagher's looking at him, all soft smiles and gentle eyes, is making his knees feel a little too shaky to be comfortable.

He heaves out a sigh and manages a nod. "I do."

"So, if I wanted to say, 'you did me a huge favour and I wanna buy you dinner to say thanks, please don't turn me down', you'd know how?"

Mickey snorts and shakes his head. "Getting a little complicated, there, Red. Try stickin' to the basics."

Gallagher's smile finally breaks free and he nods thoughtfully. "Okay. Will you let me buy you dinner to say thanks for helping me out, please, Mickey?"

Mickey pretends to think about it, because despite the growing evidence to the contrary, he still has _some_ pride. He's not a complete bitch.

"Alright, Gallagher, but you're takin' me to Sizzler's."


End file.
